


Page Ripped Out

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Inspired by Music, Romance, based on canon, secret pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: He was the kindest thing that ever happened to her, even if that was not how their story was toldWritten for Sing Me a Rare: Mashups and awarded:Best Un-Happily Ever AfterBest Surprise EndingThe One You Wish Was CanonFavorite Smash RoundAdmin MidnightChardonnay’s Wish I’d Written It
Relationships: Secret Pairing
Comments: 36
Kudos: 55
Collections: Sing Me a Rare: The Mash-Ups





	Page Ripped Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing Me a Rare: Mash Ups. Much love to my beta and/or alpha who shall remain nameless until the fest is complete.  
> Song Prompt – Sorry by Halsey and Beautiful People by Christina Aguilera  
> Thank yous go to In_Dreams for her stellar beta work as usual and mcal for her keen alpha eyes!
> 
> Incredibly proud to announce that this fic won the following awards int he Sing Me A Rare: Mash Ups contest:  
> Best Un-Happily Ever After  
> Best Surprise Ending  
> The One You Wish Was Canon  
> Favorite Smash Round  
> Admin MidnightChardonnay’s Wish I’d Written It

For as long as she could remember, she ran desperately headlong after love. 

Her parents weren’t cold—quite the opposite, in fact. Her mother doted on her with all the splendour a poor Muggle woman could. Her father worked tirelessly at the Ministry to bring them any small measure of glory. 

She wasn’t supposed to be a witch—that’s what all the healers told her father since she never displayed accidental magic at home. And though she’d mourned the lost life she’d always dreamed of, she hadn’t thought being a Squib would be all that bad.

But the repeated adage that no magic had manifested in her blood drove her father to drink—long nights turned into longer days characterised by even longer fights with her mother. He began to plant a seed of doubt within it: Muggles and Muggle-borns were inferior. 

Even worse were Squibs.

And as her father grew steadily more abusive, losing his job at the Ministry, barking slurs at her mother more often than calling her by her name, the wounds festered. Her mother loved her harder.

Perhaps it was because she adored her father so, but as a girl she leaned into his hateful rants, parroting the words back at her mother just to watch her face crumple and her father beam.

Anything to earn his love.

By ten, she despised her mother, and it was with a flash of bright crimson magic when her mother tried to pack her away and flee in the middle of the night that she finally showed her true nature: she was a witch.

**xXx**

Even as a wretchedly poor young witch, her father made sure she didn’t want for a thing. He poured his income into pretty robes and new textbooks, the best cauldron his meagre galleons could buy.

It would be worth it, he’d promised. She could bring pride back to the family name.

And she did. When she went away to Hogwarts, she quickly excelled. She was the most advanced witch in her class, though none of the professors recognised any of her achievements with accolades. It served only to foster the loathing she felt for those who couldn’t—or _wouldn’t_ —recognise her superiority.

She’d never had friends, and maybe that was what drove her so fiercely to prove herself. If she only studied harder, talked more, laughed _louder_ , someone would like her. With external validation she’d received from her father in short supply, she sought it from her peers.

Though her professors deemed her work acceptable, her classmates loathed her. Variations on a theme followed her around the castle: “Doesn’t your father work as a janitor for the Minister? Surprised you got into Hogwarts with that sorry lot for a family.” She simpered prettily at them until she could no longer bear darting into empty classrooms to hide her tears.

Her sixth year, she wrote her father to inform him she’d be staying at Hogwarts, including a forged letter from Slughorn that she would remain in the castle to assist him with a project over the summer.

It would support her career, she penned, guilt in the pit of her stomach as she sent the owl away with the scroll tied tightly to its leg.

She’d never lied to her father before.

But the remainder of the year passed in a desperate haze, stockpiling information as though it would make up for the ridicule of her contemporaries. And she spiraled, falling further into the intense loathing she felt for everyone around her, but none more so than other Muggle-borns who fit in so flawlessly, who made her the butt of their jokes.

There was only one person who she allowed herself to admire, his golden locks and winning smile so captivating that she couldn’t bring herself to hate him despite the reminder that he was a half-blood just like her. 

A year her senior, the deep sapphire of his robes brought out the ocean in his eyes, but he looked at everyone with that same, absent smirk.

But then he saw her. 

_Really_ saw her.

And she was lost to him.

**xXx**

She was returning from a late evening of illicitly browsing the library when she came across him. He was without house robes, but what gave her pause was the Prefect he held by wandpoint.

“How did you manage to brew Amortentia so effortlessly?” His voice was silky smooth, and she might have thought that he was speaking to a lover if not for the way his eyes tightened and his hand tightly gripped his wand.

The girl’s eyes darted side to side. “I didn’t—it wasn’t for—how did you _know_?” Panic flashed in her eyes. “It was purely academic.” She swallowed thickly as tears pooled in her eyes. “I theorised that the potion is much more effective if you allow it to boil longer on a lower heat.” 

In all her years at Hogwarts, she’d never seen him appear anything less than pleasant—popularity was the power he wielded, and she envied his easy acceptance amongst all groups.

But now, as his expression twisted at the acquisition of new information, she saw the snake lying beneath his pretty exterior as he cast a Legilimency spell on the Prefect.

Power hungry. He thrived on the notoriety. On the reputation that preceded him. 

It sent a thrill of excitement through her, and so caught up in her imaginings of grandeur at his side, she nearly missed the rest of the interaction.

“Ah! A simple reduction of heat slows the disintegration of the Ashwinder eggs and rose thorns, allowing them to diffuse more evenly throughout the potion,” he repeated back to the Prefect, his lips quirking. “Quite right. Thank you for that help; I’ll eagerly inform Slughorn of the discovery.”

The girl’s face twisted in confusion, a furrow burrowing between her brows. “What do you mean? _I’ll_ tell Slughorn; it was my discovery!”

A cunning frown warped his features as he twisted his wand. “That’s where you're wrong! But I appreciate your contribution to magical knowledge; rest assured that I’ll handle it with the utmost care.” He affected a contrite smile. “Really, it’s rather a shame. I quite liked you. _Obliviate_.”

His wand flared brilliantly, her face falling slack. He quickly stepped back and arranged his expression into one of remorse at being caught out of bed.

As soon as the witch’s expression righted, she frowned down at him. “What are you doing out of bed? Just because you’re a seventh year doesn’t mean you have the right to wander the castle after curfew as you please.” A tight frown accompanied the scolding as the witch glanced down the hall, trying to place herself. “Fifty points from Ravenclaw—get to bed.”

He lifted his shoulder apologetically. “Of course—my apologies, Montmorency.” 

He turned away from the Prefect, who turned and wandered aimlessly down the hall, and marched towards the suit of armour behind which she ducked with a small gasp.

Her heart was in her throat as his footsteps approached.

Several moments passed, during which her heart pounded in her ears, and just as she made to duck out from behind the armour, that same smooth voice prompted, “Did you enjoy the show?” 

Peeling her eyes open, she forced movement into her body, stepping out into the moonlit hall. He was taller than she, forcing her chin up at him with a narrowed glare. Daring him to raise his wand against her. “Show? I simply fancied a visit to the library—I was returning to the common room now.” 

A noncommittal grunt answered her, and she saw his hand skim towards the holster in the band of his trousers. “It is quite the night, isn’t it?” he murmured, pleasant enough if not for the flash of anger in his gaze.

And before she could convince herself otherwise, she uttered to him, “It is—a good night to expand one’s knowledge base.”

It was enough to give him pause, and he canted his head to the side, studying her. After a moment, he replied, “Indeed.” 

A rush of self-serving adrenaline coursed through her as she dangled a piece of information before him, testing whether he would bite. “Emmeline Vance is able to cast a powerful False Memory Charm. Word has it she’s been shortlisted for the Ministry. Seems a valuable skill for a wizard to have—particularly a wizard with aspirations as grand as your own.” For effect, she canted her head the way Montmorency had wandered. 

His jaw worked, but he dropped his wand. Considering her for a moment, he seemed to volley the idea of Obliviating her much the same way that he had Montmorency, but then a conspiratorial grin cracked his lips. “And what would that afford you? I’m to finish my studies in three months—certainly you don't want to sell all your secrets to a pretty face.”

Her heart raced against her chest at the brilliant smile aimed at her. “I’ve ambitions, too, you know.” She tilted her face up to him, eyeing the strong curve of his jaw and wondering which gods decided to bless her with his attention. 

She found she didn’t much care.

For a moment, she thought she’d lost him. But he loosened a laugh, returning his wand to his pocket as he offered her his elbow. “I don’t think we’ve properly met; Gilderoy Lockhart. 

Her laughter tinkled out of her in short, staccato huffs. “I know who you are.” 

It didn’t escape him that she failed to offer her name in return, but he flicked one brow at her anyways as he tossed his golden locks off his forehead. “Quite right. How about I escort you back to your dormitory?”

Satisfaction and anticipation sent her heart racing, but she slipped her hand into the proffered crook and grinned demurely up at him. “So gentlemanly of you, Gildy.”

“Gildy? How pedestrian,” he laughed, but his free hand settled over her fingers. “I suppose it’ll be our little secret.”

 **xXx**

He treated her like jewellery.

Some days, he paraded her through the castle with her arm woven carefully through the crook of his as though she was a priceless gem. On others, she was a necklace he’d purchased for a sickle in Hogsmeade, carefully hidden away to avoid the embarrassment. 

But she lapped up the attention he lavished on her on the good days. 

She’d never been granted the kind of attention he offered.

Even on the days Gilderoy didn’t particularly acknowledge her, he needed her. A tip of his head towards a witch or wizard, a shrewd perusal of one of their classmates in the Great Hall was all it took for her to arrange their ‘chance’ meeting with Gildy in a dark hallway or abandoned classroom.

The professors, though they clearly noticed something was amiss, couldn’t pinpoint his sudden, rocketing success, so she did what any young witch in love did.

She lied for him.

“You’ll understand if we’re a little wary of his sudden improvement, dear,” Professor Baublous pressed, watery eyes staring over his glasses.

Legilimency washed over her skin, slick and obtrusive, and she pasted on a winning smile as she shored up her Occlumency shields—courtesy of Gildy. “I understand, Professor, but I assure you that it’s only because we’ve been working together. I’ve impressed how important the N.E.W.T.s are, particularly with his aspirations of becoming the youngest Minister in history.” 

“Too right.” Baublous’s tone was placated though unconvinced. “Well, far be it from me to get in the way of his learning. What a lucky young man, to have such a devoted friend to help him out.”

Instantly, her mood plummetted. “I’m his girlfriend.” Perhaps it was a bit preemptive, given he’d never asked her to go steady, but she liked the way it sounded.

It made her feel important. 

Her professor nodded absently. “Sure, my dear. Off you go now; you’ll be late for dinner.”

As she passed her desk on the way out, she brushed her fingers over their initials she’d carved into the desk.

**xXx**

Returning to Hogwarts without Gilderoy left her longing to fly through the coursework and return to his side. 

She’d never needed the reassurance of a relationship before, but she’d enjoyed more social stature when with him than without. Though she appreciated the lack of skepticism her professors treated her with in Gildy’s absence, she found an empty hollow where he’d lodged himself in her heart. 

It was precisely two weeks before the end of the term that Professor Almasi called her into his office to personally deliver her N.E.W.T.s scores.

“You did admirably! With scores like these, you could easily find yourself in an influential position within a few years.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, eyes flicking over the scores. “ _O_ s in nearly everything but potions.”

She inclined her head, pride warming her through. “I’ve had the time to study.”

“Ahh, yes, I’ve noticed that your studies have taken more of a priority this year than last,” he murmured, pulling his glasses off with a thoughtful frown. “May I be frank?”

At her eager nod, he leaned forward, offering her the N.E.W.T.s scoresheet. “You’re clearly a talented witch. It’s not my place to advise you what you should do with your personal relationships, but I do worry that your ties to young Mister Lockhart have stunted your professional growth.”

She felt the colour drain from her face. “Sir?”

Professor Almasi frowned. “I have contacts in the Ministry—I reached out personally to the head of the Improper Use of Magic Office to inform him that I believed you would be a promising fit for his new position. It offers competitive wages, benefits, generous time off… it’s a rung on the ladder up the Ministry.”

Looking away, she tried to swallow down the disappointment rioting in her stomach. She knew the position, had received the invitation to apply via owl post weeks ago. 

When she’d written Gildy of her excitement, he’d responded with an advertisement for a position as a low level secretary in the D.M.L.E. accompanied by a quickly jotted, “ _I think this is more suited to our mutual goals, don’t you?_ ” scrolled across the parchment.

Rolling her shoulders, she looked up at Professor Almasi. “I appreciate the suggestion, Professor, but I’ve already accepted a position. Within the D.M.L.E.” Her expression felt brittle, her chest hollow, but she plunged on with the well-rehearsed lie. “It will be a good transition while I determine how I’d like to move forward.”

The knitting of his eyebrows showed he didn’t believe her for a minute, but he pushed upright, disturbing the parchment on his desk. “Very well—should you ever need a letter of recommendation—”

But her gaze was locked on the parchment, her eyes wide. “Professor, are you writing a memoir?” 

This time his face coloured, and he quickly rearranged the parchment, covering the title. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Just a discussion on my _Homorphus Charm_ —rather complex bit of magic that temporarily transforms werewolves back into their human forms.

The gears in her mind were turning, drowning out the professor as she remembered the latest letter from Gildy: _I just need something that could be my big break into publishing—something groundbreaking._

Professor Almasi turned, an apologetic smile on his face. “Forgive the ramblings of a middle-aged wizard, dear. I haven't any family or friends to talk about new research with, not even among the staff.” 

She waved him away as she slipped her wand from her pocket. “Not at all, Professor. I’m happy to listen, but I really should be getting to dinner.”

It was simple, really, looking back on it.

He turned, making his way to his private office, and she aimed a stunner at his back, knocking him unconscious to the floor. Within seconds, she shrank and slipped the manuscript into her pocket and crouched beside him, twisting her wand next to his forehead. “ _Obliviate_.” 

When she affected a concerned expression and roused him, he appeared dazed but stood and made his way to his desk as she held her breath.

“Professor?” For a tense moment, when his hand smoothed over the place where the manuscript had been, she thought she’d been had. “Professor, are you alright?”

Gaze hazy, he stared into the distance over her left shoulder. “Quite.” 

**xXx**

Warm breath washed over her shoulder as she paged through yet another report. “That’s an extensive report you have there. Though they were wrong—I didn’t seduce the witch for her tale on ghouls.”

She froze, finger lodged between two pages as a shudder wracked through her, splintering her resolve to stay mad at him. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to visit me at work. You’ll get me fi—” Her sentence ended on a breathy moan as warm, moist lips attached to the juncture of her shoulder. They skated in open-mouthed kisses up the arch of her neck as they went, and she was powerless to stop her hand from fluttering back and tangling in the locks that tickled her skin.

“You know I don’t play by the rules,” Gilderoy chuckled, a low, promising tenor to his voice. “Besides, you made the inquiry about Professor Almasi disappear—shouldn’t you get a reward?” He left her no room to answer as he leaned into her, hands creeping up to grasp her breasts through the thin fabric of her Ministry-issue blouse.

It was nearly enough to pull her away from the files, especially when his tongue was doing that _thing_ that he knew she liked just beneath her ear, but she leaened away, glancing around the office. “You’re mad; someone will see us. It’s only my first week!” 

“No one will see us if we don’t want them to.” He rounded her, one finger tracing idly over her shoulder and across her chest as he went. He paused, lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered, “Does it make me the devil if I want to enjoy watching you come all over your paperwork with my fingers under your boring Ministry skirt?”

When he perched on the desk before her, crushing her carefully organised papers, she had to forcibly wrench her gaze up from the bulge in his trousers. The way he’d stretched languidly over her paperwork sent a bolt of fire racing through her core as she choked out, “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

A wicked smirk crossed his lips as he hooked a finger in her skirt, yanking her into his chest. “I’ll have you off in fewer than ten.”

She barely had the presence of mind to cast notice-me-not and silencing charms around her desk before he yanked her upright and onto his lap.

Paperwork be damned.

**xXx**

Four years later, they were basking in the afterglow of post-coital bliss when she brought up a promotion. 

She traced her fingers through his chest hair absently as she gathered the courage. A Gryffindor she was not. “I’ve been offered a new job. It’s mostly a lateral move, but it’ll come with more time off, some benefits. I think it could be good for…” 

He stiffened beneath her, tilting her face upright. “But what about the next book, dear? You know I’ve signed on for another to be released this year. I’ll need your help in the department.”

 _Help_. He needed her to cover up another of his stolen tales. Taking a deep breath to bolster herself, she peered up into his endlessly blue eyes. “Gildy, you know that I would do anything for your career, but I’m nearly twenty-two. I feel as though I’ve done nothing with my career, and this is too good an opportunity to—”

“I love you.” 

The three words washed over her like a bucket of ice cold water before her heart thumped rapidly, all thoughts of the promotion gone. “You—you do?” Her lip quivered. She’d thought those words for so long but had held them close against her chest, guarding them like the world’s best kept secret. 

Gilderoy _loved_ her.

He leveraged himself over her, propping his head up on one hand. “Why wouldn’t I? You’ve given everything to make sure my dreams are realised.” That smile again—the one that had captivated her from the very beginning—beamed down at her. “Of course I do.”

Breath coming out in rapid gasps, she plunged her hands into his hair, cradling his head. “Say it again,” she whispered.

“Dolores Jane Umbridge, I love you.” 

The words had barely escaped his mouth when she launched herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

**xXx**

“Gildy, I can’t keep covering for you like this. This is my second inquiry in less than a week,” Dolores huffed as she walked through the Floo, no less than two hours later than she normally was. Her shoulders were drawn up tight from the hours of interrogation, but Head Auror MacIlwain had finally released her when there was no firm evidence to prove her involvement. 

Gilderoy sat in his chair by the window, cup of tea steeping in the waning light. He barely acknowledged her return with a muttered, “Sorry, dear.”

A spark of irritation lit in her belly. “I should hope so. I was nearly fired today.”

That caught his attention, and Gilderoy shot up, frantic fear lighting his gaze. “What do you mean? You weren’t, were you? I need you there! You’re the only one—”

“I wasn’t, which you would know if you listened to half the words that come out of my mouth,” she huffed, discarding her bag on the back of a dining chair. “I do think, however, that it’s time for me to look into other jobs. There’s a position open with—”

His eyes flashed dangerously as he approached her, catching her elbows in his hands. “That’s rather hasty, don’t you think, Dolly?” He fell back on his rarely-used nickname for her as he sucked his lip between his teeth. “I just mean to say that—”

But she pulled away, refusing to fall into that game again. “Gilderoy, it’s _time_. You’ve so many books.” She gestured to the titles proudly on display. “You’re a household name. Merlin, most people don’t even know we’re together. _Br_ _itain’s Most Eligible Wizard_ , _Keeping up with Gilderoy Lockhart,_ ” she listed at him, a tired sigh accompanying the titles of news articles she’d seen in the past week alone. “I just want to move on. I’ve been in this position over _six_ years.”

He frowned, consternation lighting his eyes. “I suppose I have been a mite selfish, haven’t I?”

Without dignifying it with a response, Dolores continued, “Auror MacIlwain has given me permission to vet my replacement. I could—” She paused, worrying her palms. “I could _Imperio_ them. Not much!” she added when he recoiled visibly. “Just enough that they knew to disregard any complaints about you.”

Gilderoy was silent for a moment, gaze studying her as a cheshire grin stole over his features. Suddenly, he wrapped her up in a fierce hug and spun her in a circle with a whoop. “You beautiful, brilliant witch! Apply for the job, do whatever you want.” He put her back on her feet, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” 

For the first time in ages, Dolores felt a glimmer of hope and pushed away the part of her that whispered it was too good to be true.

**xXx**

Rita Skeeter peered at Gilderoy over her bright red, cat-eyed glasses illuminating the calculating glint in her eyes as she leaned forward. Her Quick Quotes Quill hovered between them. “Why don’t you tell me your greatest accomplishment.”

Gildy leaned forward, unclasping his hand from hers as he angled himself to the front of the shot for the flashing camera above Rita’s head. “Well, I’ve many noteworthy accolades. It’s difficult to pin down exactly _one_.”

A saccharine smile worked its way up Rita’s lips. “Of course, how silly of me.” A wave of her wand brought her satchel soaring toward her. From within its depths, Skeeter withdrew a photograph. “We managed to secure some photographs to feature of your school days. What do you make of this one?”

Gildy leaned forward, accepting the proffered image with a laugh. “Oh, dear, would you look at that!” He tilted it towards Dolores, his clamouring frame eclipsing everyone in the picture. “It was your birthday—we were so young!”

She remembered the feeling. He’d announced his second publishing deal with _Flourish and Blotts_ and taken the time that was meant to be hers yet again. GIlderoy always smiled for the cameras, stole the spotlight, lived for the high life.

But she had smiled and congratulated him as everyone flocked to him. “It was a happy day,” Dolores murmured, hand coiling into a fist.

Skeeter’s mouth was all sharp fangs. “Young love. How have you changed since then, Gilderoy?” 

His laughter exploded out of him while she narrowed her eyes at Skeeter. Dolores knew what the woman was doing, could feel the needling as clearly as though she’d spoken her subliminal message aloud: _He should have left the slack behind in school._

Gildy tipped his head to the side, silently watching her power play with Skeeter, but he fished into his pocket with a loud sigh. “Oh, entirely. My witch has been my one constant through this journey.” 

Dolores whipped her head sideways at him, mouth falling open as he monologued on their romance. 

Skeeter rolled her eyes but indicated for the quill to keep writing.

It was lies. All of it. They’d not had sex in months, and he was barely home anymore. He was always off on one adventure or the next, leaving her behind in the dark, cobwebbed bowels of the Ministry to clean up his messes. She was no longer privy to the golden glow of his attention, and he no longer had to talk her out of her aspirations for power. 

Each inquiry into him that came across her desk went swiftly into the bin, just like her dreams, and he chased the world over in his quest for notoriety and his next book deal.

“—and it’s no secret that I owe the vast majority of my successes to her,” he continued on, pulling a small box from his pocket and rolling it between his palms. It was an impressive display of nerves, but she knew it was for show, and her heart plummeted to her feet at the same time he slid out of his chair and knelt on a single knee before her.

White noise roared in her ears as he flipped the ring box open, and only the words “—will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” made it through the haze.

She froze, her hand flying to her lips; it was a picture perfect moment for Skeeter, who jumped to motion the camera forward after only a moment of stunned disbelief.

This wasn’t how she wanted to be proposed to—some publicity stunt for his next book, a paragraph in an article that he’d tuck neatly into his portfolio to flaunt.

She wanted him to _love_ her, even though she thought herself unlovable. She knew his birthday, but he didn’t know hers. She could recall his mother’s favourite song quicker than he was to ask after how she felt. He didn’t love her.

She was just another box to check in his long line of achievements: book deals, obedient wife, Order of Merlin. Just another stepping stone in his crusade to gain the Ministry seat.

Just a page ripped out of his book in which she was little more than an anecdote. 

But she _loved_ him. And if this was the only way she could have him, it was a sacrifice she would make. 

As if on cue, tears misted her eyes, and she found herself nodding mutely and throwing herself into his arms as Rita crowed her congratulations.

**xXx**

The wedding was a quick affair, though no less extravagant than anything in which Gilderoy ever indulged. Photographers from the magical world over attended, and their photographs made news headlines everywhere.

_Mysterious Ministry Witch Woos Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor_

She closed the door to her office as she smiled at her assistant then hastily cast a silencing charm.

It'd taken two years to plan a wedding while working through the ranks at the Ministry, finally able to execute her ruthless tenacity to climb the ladders and gain the position she should have had years ago.

And then, on her first day of work as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic under Cornelius Fudge, her husband’s notoriety had to ruin it again.

With a shriek of rage and sorrow, she jabbed her wand at the article and watched it disintegrate in a haze of flames.

She allowed the flames to settle and the smoke to clear before she summoned her assistant over the intercom with a quiet, “Hem, hem. I’ll have a cuppa, if you don’t mind.” 

**xXx**

No stranger to his proclivity for fame, Dolores was unsurprised when Gilderoy informed her months later that he had applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Rumors abounded that Harry Potter was a student at the school, and Gilderoy would need a new subject for his next novel.

Far be it from her to derail his hard work. There was more ire in the thought than she found in her typical interactions with Gilderoy.

“I’ll be home on the weekends and all holidays,” he promised, dipping to press his lips to her forehead in a kiss that warmed her straight through. “And Albus has allowed me to have open Floo access so that we might visit one another.” His tone caressed the syllables, victory at the power it offered.

She clasped his hand, tilting her head toward the dining table where her briefcase hung haphazardly from the back of the chair, their tabby kitten batting at it playfully. A jealous knot tightened in her throat. “I’ve work to be done anyway; paperwork waits for no one in the Ministry.”

It was meant as a joke, but he frowned, his blond waves falling over his eyes in that rakishly handsome way that drew her to him to begin with. “Think of the galleons, my dear.”

“The galleons,” she scoffed. “If you were worried about the galleons, maybe you ought to be more willing to listen to my requests to accept the positions offered me. The positions I’ve earned.” 

His face twisted in a mask of fury, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, his award-winning smile pasted across his lips. “You’re a woman, love. The Ministry doesn’t need women in positions of power,” he wheedled, pulling her into his arms.

 _Career_. The notion was laughable, and she turned away, hiding the furious flat line of her lips. “Maybe you ought to just stay at Hogwarts.”

That made him freeze in place, and he stared down at her with that familiar obstinate expression. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should just go.” Flashes of her life as a paper pusher flit through her mind. She’d received nowhere near the prestige he had even as she worked her way through the ranks, and all of it had been built on the backs of other wizards. “Use the time away to practice magic that _isn’t_ an Obliviation spell.”

It was a low blow, but it delivered the desired effect. He recoiled, a wave of hurt marring his handsome features before it morphed into an ugly sneer. “You know what you are, _Dolly_ ?” He weaponised the endearment. “You’re jealous. You’re a jealous, petty, _sensitive_ bitch who is jealous that I got the fame and the notoriety you wanted. But the public wants the _beautiful_ people to fawn over. They don’t care about stuffy Ministry witches.” 

Each word a splinter, the degradation lodged into her heart until it was a cold, lifeless lump in her chest. 

A jeer of her own matched it, dark fury coiling in her chest. “And you’re a _man_. An average, lazy, boring, _cowardly_ man. In fact, average is far too kind an assessment. None of your success is your own—it’s all stolen from those who are too _stupid_ to see behind that pretty smile.” Her chest heaved, spewing words she didn’t entirely mean at him, but it was easier this way—easier to sever the tie before he could.

Rage fell over his face before he turned longingly to the shelves lined with his books, the same way he coveted the tales that he saw told of other wizards and witches.

He’d long ago grown bored of her harping on her desire to climb bureaucratic ladders—she knew it as well as she knew the back of her hand—but some part of her hoped that there was still the man she loved in there. 

But he straightened, stalking to the kitchen to grab his trunk. He rounded on her, brows drawn. “It’s over then. Just like that.”

Mittens crawled into her lap, the feline’s vibrating purr reverberating in her chest as needle tips dug into the flesh of Dolores’ thigh. The bright flare of localised pain steadied her, and she pushed through the emotions that well up in her. She should have seen it coming from the start.

What a fool she was to believe he’d truly fallen in love with her. “Just like that.”

Gilderoy pushed a hand through his styled blond waves, dual patches of colour high on his cheekbones. He rarely allowed himself to appear flustered, but she had rattled him.

It was small of her, to feel victorious.

“I haven’t the time to gather my belongings.” His voice was devoid of emotion, all his characteristic flamboyance gone. “I’ll return at the end of the term to retrieve them.” 

He turned, making for the Floo with his trunk in hand when he turned, staring down at her, his finger rubbing idly at the band on his left hand. She matched his gesture subconsciously. “Why now?”

She couldn’t— _wouldn’t—_ bring herself to admit her insecurities, so she gestured towards the bookcase. “We have different desires—you want fame; I want power.” She sniffed, turning away from him. “I deserve more than you’re willing to give me.” She forced wrath into her tone as she summoned a brief, flipping the pages open. “I’ll owl the Ministry for solicitor information. For the divorce.”

There was no discussion, no protests. 

He stepped into the Floo without a backwards glance, disappearing in a flash of flames.

It was only when she rushed after him, collapsing against the mantle, that she spotted his ring discarded among their photographs, that she allowed her world to crash around her in a violent haze of pink magic.

**xXx**

She regretted the argument almost as soon as he left. 

Every wall in their flat was filled with memories of him. His bright white smile dimpled down at her from over the mantle, his figure gesturing happily from the front covers of the books. By the third day, she was too overcome by the reminders that she refused to climb out of bed.

He’d taken the colour from her life, and she couldn’t figure out how to get it back. 

She meant to send for a solicitor, but the months passed in a monotonous blur of paperwork that seemed to run together. But, true to the work ethic she’d developed over the years, she threw herself into it. It was stunning what she could do when no longer tempered by her fear of outshining Gildy. 

She couldn’t properly celebrate her promotion to Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office. It was a belated homage to her former lover. Despite her parting words to him, Dolores did learn a thing or two from him—but she’d grown adept at Obliviation charms as well. When her competition congratulated her on her success, the hazy disconnect in his eyes didn’t warm her through with victory like she thought it would. 

Her owls went unanswered, and she found herself puttering around their shared flat with as much vigour as she could on the days when the melancholy didn’t bowl her over or leave her in a crumpled heap against his side of the bed.

It no longer smelled of him.

She refused to shed tears at his absence. Doing so would only serve to legitimise his absence, a reality she couldn’t quite acknowledge.

Part of her believed that he’d come back. That one day, the Floo would flare and he would stroll through with yet another tale of his extraordinary adventures soon to be sensationalised in another of his books. 

She was just packing up for the day when an owl soared through her open window, a jolt of sheer joy sending her upright.

Dolores recognised that owl. It was Gildy’s owl. The one she’d gifted him upon the release of his first book.

Allowing it to settle on its old perch, she breathed deeply, anticipating the scent of his cologne or that expensive hair product he’d created, but instead, all she smelled were notes of old parchment and, bewilderingly, lemon.

Careful fingers pried it open, but a gasp escaped her as her eyes flew over the parchment and dropped it to the table, rushing to the Floo.

_Dolores,_

_There’s been an accident. Gilderoy is in St. Mungo’s._ _  
_ _He needs you._

 _Professor Albus Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_ _  
_ _Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry _

**xXx**

Entering the Janus Thickey Ward was surreal. As a partition of St. Mungos, she’d imagined it would be much the same as the rest: all white walls, poorly concealed anaesthetic scents, healers and assistants flitting by as they went about their duties. But this ward was like a nesting doll. 

Within its creaky wooden doors, a long hallway stretched to accommodate the vast number of rooms. Each entry was plain save for a plaque at about eye level for an average-sized witch or wizard—which she was _not_ —and so she had to lift up onto her tiptoes with a scoff of disdain. 

She traced her gaze over the letters. _Alice and Frank Longbottom_. She knew those names, several years her seniors at Hogwarts. That they were locked away within a restricted ward should have saddened her, but a satisfied laugh tinkled from her.

Served them right for thinking they were better than she.

She turned, making to cross the hall and read the next door, but the squeak of trainers down the long hall distracted her, and she turned. The woman approaching her was well-kept, blonde hair spun into a tight knot on the crown of her hair. For a moment, Dolores wondered whether she could feel how the style pulled her brows comically high. 

The healer didn’t allow time for questioning, sticking her hand out expectantly. “Dolores Lockhart, I presume?”

A fissure of irritation ran up her back, and Dolores dropped the woman’s hand with a half-hearted lift of her lips—an expression she knew came out more like a sneer. “Umbridge. I opted to retain my surname—the Umbridge family was once highly regarded in the magical world.” 

She expected the woman to be impressed, but an impassive nod was all the healer offered. “Ms. Umbridge. I apologise. I am Healer Strout; it appears you are aware of the situation?” She turned, waving her hand at the hall before her, and began walking back the way she came, clearly expecting Dolores to follow in her wake. 

“Welcome to Janus Thickey Ward. As I’m sure you know, we treat magical maladies here, spells gone wrong, the like.” Clasping her hands behind her back, Healer Strout droned on, a speech she’d no doubt repeated innumerable times.

“Each room is outfitted in an attempt to keep the occupant comfortable. We base the design on whatever memories we can access.” Strout tilted her head over her shoulder, glancing back at Dolores, who stood rooted in place.

The expression felt like chastisement, and Dolores darted forwards, sniffing haughtily. “I’m not sure I understand why I’ve been summoned to this infernal—”

The witch interrupted, a severe frown creasing her forehead. “You are married to Gilderoy Lockhart.” Her voice softened over her next sentence. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

Cold fear finally took hold in Dolores’ chest, gaze wandering to the door on which a shiny new plaque glinted in the lamplight. 

_Gilderoy Cassius Lockhart_

As though animated by a spectre, Dolores found herself propelled forward, a dull roar in her ear blotting out all but snippets of the healer’s words. _Broken wand. Backfired memory charm. Two students, Potter and Weasley. No permanent damage. Nothing we can do._

Her throat seized, emotion trapped in the narrow channel even as her glands worked overtime to produce the saliva that pooled in her mouth.

The room was familiar— _of course_ it was familiar, made up to look just like their flat. She knew that china set—the one that Tilly Toke gifted him and from which she and Gildy shared their Sunday tea services, done up special just the way they both liked it. The rug had the familiar worn pattern in it from Gilderoy’s pacing whilst regaling Dolores with his latest trips abroad. 

She thought she might be sick.

Gilderoy was sitting comfortably in his wing-backed chair, a quill and parchment laid out before him. It was the eagle-feather quill she gifted him for their fifth anniversary. Emotion seized her throat, but she pushed it back down with a delicate, “Hem, hem.”

His gaze swung towards her, and he leapt at her, the shattering of china accompanying the movement. Suddenly she’s wrapped up in arms as familiar as her own.

“Dolly! Gods, where have you _been_? I’ve been waiting for you.” His vibrant smile warmed her chest in the way that only he had ever been able to manage, and tears obscured her vision of him as he rushed back across the room. “Bugger it all, I’ve broken the china set.”

The mundane worry brought her voice back to her, and she blinked rapidly. “It’s okay, Gilderoy. A simple charm will fix—”

“Charm?” A confused twist pulled at his lips as he stared up at her, confusion falling over his features. “I’m not sure I follow, love, but I’ve a broom around here somewhere.” Even as he lifted his head to locate the broom, his hands darted out to gather up the debris in a gesture reminiscent of a charm, his skin snagging on the jagged edges. 

Immediately, blood began to seep from the wounds, and Dolores moved to help, but she wasn’t prepared for the way Gilderoy reacted.

His features collapsed, his hands shaking violently, and Healer Strout rushed forward, grabbing her arm just above the elbow and began dragging her backward. Her other hand disappeared into her robes, conjuring a Patronus. “Lockhart room. Bring the Calming Draught immediately.”

Dolores struggled in the woman’s grip, terror clawing at her throat as Gildy began to rock and stare at his hands with revulsion morphing his features. She thrashed, and it was only when Healer Strout shouted at her to calm down that Dolores realised an unintelligible torrent of words were pouring from her in an attempt to calm Gilderoy down.

It was just as they made it to the door that his terror crescendoed, and a wave of magic rippled outward from where he lied, curled into the foetal position, on the floor.

The blast of it knocked her backwards, collapsing against Healer Strout. The plates on the wall shattered, frantic mewls of the painted kittens a discordant symphony as they fell to the floor. The Muggle radio Gilderoy had sung along to cracked down the centre, the sounds falling silent as debris fell atop it. A final surge of magic slammed the door shut, and the only thing Dolores could hear other than the thundering of her heart was the clamour of additional healers rushing down the hall.

She righted herself as they halted before her, but none of them addressed her.

“The patient?” An older man with a badge declaring him as Healer Khan strode to the front of the group, concern colouring his expression. 

Healer Strout wrung her hands before her. “Negative reaction to interaction with individuals pre-injury.” She swallowed, her eyes meeting Dolores. 

The man swore. “It is clearly listed in his chart that he is an unstable patient. Reintroduction needs to occur under strict, _controlled_ circumstances, if at all.”

 _If at all._ Dolores felt her stomach drop as the knowledge fell over her. She knew what was coming before the woman opened her mouth to speak.

“Ms. Umbridge, I do apologise, but we will have to escort you from the building.” Healer Strout had the decency to look away, shame a heavy weight that drooped her shoulders as she refused to meet Dolores’ gaze. “The patient is not fit for visitors at the moment.” 

Healer Khan stepped forwards, his gaze unforgiving as he doled out the words that sent her carefully rebuilt world crashing around her again. “If he improves, we will send word. For now—” A beat passed, and the final vestige of hope that Dolores held onto shattered. “For now, we will be banning all visitors to preserve his condition. Rest assured he will want for nothing.”

Dolores moved jerkily, her jaw dropping open. “But will he recover?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s little more than a Squib.”

The words broke her, a dry sob escaping from deep in her belly as Healer Strout wrapped a soothing arm around her shoulders, navigating Dolores toward the exit even as she peered desperately behind her. 

Just before the door clicked shut and Healer Khan disappeared from view, Dolores heard Gildy’s quiet, sniffling inquiry: “Where’d Dolly go? I was so glad to see her.”

**xXx**

Dolores didn’t like remembering.

Remembering made the shards of her mangled heart awaken and bury themselves into the meat of her lungs all over again.

But all this castle held was memories.

She lifted her head, peering out over the familiar Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The desk in which she’d carved their initials—three rows back, second desk in—seemed to taunt her with the memories it held preserved. But it was the raven-haired wizard leaned back petulantly in its accompanying seat, frown pinched between his brows, that drew her ire.

Biting back the hatred roiling within her, she pasted a sugary sweet smile on her face and rose, hands folded neatly before her. “Well, good afternoon!”

The class grumbled back an unintelligible answer, but she didn’t miss the way Potter’s eyes rolled and caught on the Weasley child. 

She hated the lot of them.

“Tut, tut.” Straightening herself, she forced out, “ _That_ won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply, ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

Sick satisfaction roiled through her as they replied in unison, “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.” 

“Now that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” she replied sweetly, retreating behind her desk and running a hand lovingly over the peacock quill she’d dyed black and fashioned for more sinister uses than Gildy ever employed. She longed to see the tip of it crimson with Potter’s blood. “Wands away and quills out, please.”

The students exchange bewildered glances, but she stared down the Potter boy and his friend, counting down the hours until she could punish the half-blood for what he’d taken from her.

Gilderoy was the kindest thing that ever happened to her, even if that was not how their story was told.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the text in the final section is directly quoted from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix ___.  
>  Final line and summary adapted from the Nikita Johnson poem _Persephone to Hades_.  
> Lines of dialogue regarding being a man adapted from _Gone Girl_ by Gillian Flynn.


End file.
